


Forest Fires

by stingrayy



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Graphic Depictions of Torture, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Trauma, basically iorveth gets revenge and cries a lot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:13:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23678182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stingrayy/pseuds/stingrayy
Summary: For the first time in a century, he let love into his heart.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Iorveth
Comments: 2
Kudos: 50





	1. Tired

**Author's Note:**

> SO BASICALLY.... i love iorveth. I would die for him. This is basically 5k words of him learning how to love pls enjoy uwu

Geralt was tired. Very fucking tired. He wanted to pass out in the middle of the road and he wouldn’t care if a cart ran over him. His ribs were already broken, and the wound on his side was beginning to scab and was likely sticking to his shirt. It wouldn’t be fun to undress later. He stumbled into the inn, the noise of the evening crowd painfully piercing his ears. 

Before he could make it to the innkeep to ask for a room, he heard his name being called behind him. He turned around, not bothering to hide the irritation on his face. The skinny, one eyed face that greeted him was the last thing he was expecting to see, and it hit him in the chest like the tail of a basilisk. Iorveth. 

Lacking the brain function to make a coherent sentence, Geralt smiled slightly and shook his head, running a hand over his face. The elf could tell how exhausted the witcher was, and pat him on the shoulder with a smile. 

“A room for the gentleman,” the elf said to the inkeep as he tossed a handful of gold coins on the table. Iorveth led Geralt to the room, and bit back a laugh at the sight of the witcher throwing his swords to the ground, swallowing a potion, and falling face first into the bed. 

* * *

Geralt groaned and sat up. He wiped the drool from his face and rubbed his eyes, his muscles stiff from his slumber. 

“Good morning, sunshine,” a voice said to him. Geralt opened his eyes and saw Iorveth sitting on a chair near the window. Geralt sighed. 

“You were asleep for two whole days,” the elf said, bringing a tray of food to the nightstand, “And you smell like death, so I called for a bath. It’s still warm.” Geralt realized that he was still in his armor. Thankfully, in the depth of his dreamless sleep, he still woke well rested. Now, though, he felt his sweaty skin stick to the leather and his mouth was parched. 

He began to take off his armor, successfully removing his gauntlets before reaching behind him to attempt to take off his shoulder pieces. Iorveth saw him struggle, and shook his head. 

“Stand up, let me help you,” Iorveth demanded. Geralt’s sleepy brain didn’t comprehend his words, and was startled when Iorveth kneeled on the bed next to him and undid the buckles himself. He tossed the pieces to the floor before reaching for the belt at his waist. The pressure releasing from his torso made him sigh aloud as his chest piece fell to the ground. He rubbed the tender skin under his jerkin. He hissed in pain, though, when he made contact with the wound on his left side. It had scabbed to the shirt. 

“Gods, _Gwynbleidd_ , you could have dealt with that before you went to--” Geralt ripped the shirt from the wound, taking most of the scab with it, “--bed.” The sight made Iorveth cringe. Geralt attempted to take the shirt off over his head, but the wound on his side stretched painfully and he paused with a groan. Iorveth took the shirt off the rest of the way and laughed. 

“You are a child, _vatt'ghern_ ,” the elf said, offering the witcher a hand. Geralt took it and stood, holding it for support as he kicked off his boots. He undid his belt and threw his trousers to the ground. 

“So much for modesty, I suppose,” Iorveth shrugged, though not bothering to look away as Geralt sank into the bath. He hissed in pain as the water touched his wound. 

“Please, use this,” Iorveth said, handing him a soap. It smelled floral, like oak and spices. Iorveth began to gather the witcher’s clothes and into a bin to be washed, along with the linen on the bed. Geralt scrubbed himself down as best he could, but the wound on his side wouldn’t allow him to wash his hair. Iorveth watched him out of the corner of his eye and sighed. 

“Here, let me,” he said, false annoyance in his tone. Iorveth rolled up his sleeves and took the soap from Geralt, rubbing it into his scalp. 

“ _ Thank you, mother _ ,” Geralt mumbled in elder speech. Iorveth smiled. 

“ _ The bastard child I never wanted _ ,” he replied, combing his fingers through the witcher’s hair. It was softer than he had expected. To Geralt, the feeling of the elf’s fingers rubbing circles into his scalp was enough to send chilly goosebumps over his skin, despite the warmth of the bath. He sighed and leaned into the touch, breathing in the scent of the soap. 

“You make it very hard to track you, vatt’gern,” Iorveth said. 

“That was on purpose,” Geralt responded, closing his eyes, “Didn’t want a flea-ridden squirrel following me.” Iorveth grabbed a fistful of Geralt’s hair and yanked. The witcher swore and shifted in the bath, causing the water to swell over the lip of the tub.

“Nice to know you’re happy to see me,” the elf sighed, gently rubbing the scalp where he’d pulled. 

“I am,” Geralt smiled, “The only people that have tracked me as far as you have try to kill me, not wash my hair.” Iorveth fought the urge to yank his hair again. 

“What are you even doing here?” Geralt asked. 

“Things are well up in Aedern. The Scoia'tael have settled into the forests a few miles north. Saskia is doing great things for the people there,” Iorveth said. 

“Why’d you move?” Geralt asked.

“The Scoia’tael belong in the trees,” Iorveth said, “Not in inns and mines.” Geralt hummed.

“So why did you track me this far?” 

“I was tracking a lead when I caught wind of a certain witcher passing through. It just so happened that both of you were headed to Wyzima, and I found you first,” Iorveth explained. 

“Who were you tracking?” Geralt asked. He knew he asked the wrong question when the hands on his scalp paused and Iorveth was silent for a beat.

“No one important,” Iorveth said, something sharp and hard in his voice. The scar on his face started to sting.

* * *

“Are you  _ braiding  _ my hair?” Geralt asked after what seemed like a long time to wash someone’s hair. 

“Perhaps,” Iorveth said, sectioning off another piece of hair and beginning to braid it. Geralt tried to move his head, but Iorveth placed a hand on his forehead and forced him to sit back. 

“At least let me finish. It’d look terrible if I stopped now,” Iorveth said, grinning at Geralt’s grunt of protest. When he was finished, Iorveth handed him a mirror. 

Geralt had to admit, it looked good. It was still in his half updo, but with three braids close to the scalp that turned into one at the base of the ponytail.

“The Aen Seidhe take pride in their cultural practices,” Iorveth explained, “That was, before our societies were destroyed by  _ dh'oine  _ whores. The oldest among us try to keep old practices alive.” 

“And you’re among the oldest?” Geralt asked with a sly grin, turning around to look at Iorveth. The elf rolled his eye and turned away, letting himself grin a little. 

“Thank you,” Geralt said, putting the mirror down. Iorveth hummed as the scar on his face stopped stinging. 


	2. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iorveth lets Geralt follow him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter chapter, don't ask where in the timeline this falls because i have. absolutely no idea. I just wanna write about emotionally constipated elves uwu

Geralt woke the next morning to an empty room. His wound was healing well, and he and his clothes were clean. Reluctantly, he got up and donned his armor. The familiar weight of his swords on his back made him feel oddly at home. 

As he left his room and turned the corner to the stairs, he ran into Iorveth. 

“I have to leave,” the elf explained hastily, “My target is leaving, and I have to follow him.” 

“Target?” Geralt asked. He struggled to keep up with the elf as he left the inn.

“Yes. I’ve been tracking him for a week and a half, I can’t lose him now,” Iorveth said. 

“Who is he?” Iorveth clenched his jaw at the question, picking up his pace. Geralt grabbed his wrist, but the elf snatched it away. 

“Iorveth, wait,” Geralt demanded, grabbing the elf on the shoulders and turning him around.

“Maybe I can help you. We haven’t crossed paths in years, and if it’s so important to you, I want to help,” the witcher explained. 

“No, _Gwynbleidd_ , you’d only slow me down. If he finds out I’m following, if I lost sight of him, the last three weeks would be all for naught,” Iorveth said, wriggling from his grip and resuming his brisk pace. 

“I’m a witcher, Iorveth. With all due respect, I don’t think I’ll slow you down,” Geralt said. Iorveth was growing irritated. He scoffed, not slowing his pace. 

“Will you at least tell me who it is?” Geralt pressed. Anger swelled in Iorveth. 

“Stop following me, you _bloede dh'oine_ ,” he spat, turning to Geralt before storming off again. Geralt followed.

Though he hadn’t seen the elf in years, Iorveth was just as prideful and sharp as he was before Geralt left Loc Muinne. It frustrated him that Iorveth denied his help, but the elf was stubborn. Geralt was too. 

“I bet I can guess who you’re tracking,” the witcher said. Iorveth said nothing as he walked on. 

“I bet it’s the person who gave you that scar,” Geralt continued. He knew he was right when the elf slowed a little before swearing and resuming his speed. 

“What are you gonna do when you catch him?” Geralt asked. Iorveth stopped and turned to Geralt. 

“I’m going to kill him. I’m going to gouge _his_ eye out and break every last bone in his body before I rip his limbs off,” Iorveth said, his eye never leaving Geralt’s. 

“No anthills?” the witcher asked, a sly grin spreading on his face. Something flashed in Iorveth’s green iris and his face twitched. 

“Don’t try and stop me, _vatt’ghern_ ,” he said. 

“I won’t,” Geralt promised, “I’ve seen what revenge will drive someone to do, especially someone as stubborn and proud as you. I just want to make sure you don’t get yourself killed. If you’ll let me.” Iorveth paused. He knew he would fare fine without the witcher, and he had full intent to return to upper Adern. Just as the elf was about to push the witcher away, something in his chest bloomed. He hadn’t felt it in a long time, and it took him a moment to place where he’d felt it before.

* * *

_“You’re the most noble human I know, Gwynbleidd.”_

_“I’m not human.”_

_“Thank you for reminding me. My hatred for the species abated for a moment.”_

* * *

Iorveth smiled fondly. 

“Just don’t slow me down, _Gwynbliedd_ ,” he said.


	3. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iorveth has a nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: panic/anxiety attacks

_ Pain wracked his body. It wasn’t the first time the commander had been tortured, of course, but that didn’t make it any easier. His nose was probably broken, and he’d bit his tongue. His head throbbed and his ribs felt like they were broken. His arms screamed for circulation beneath his shackles. Just as he was about to black out, his captors shook him awake.  _

_ “Care to explain  _ this _?” the man said, shoving something in front of his face. Through his blurred vision, Iorveth made out the blue-grey shape. A spearhead. He grinned nastily, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.  _

_ “A souvenir,” he slurred, “It’s quite precious to me, so I’d appreciate it if you took care of it.” Iorveth wouldn’t have said that if he knew what would have come next. His captor grabbed a fistful of the elf’s hair and yanked his head back.  _

_ “More precious than your pretty eyes?” he spat. Iorveth didn’t have time to think before he felt the searing hot pain of the spearhead being shoved into his right eye. He screamed and thrashed desperately beneath his bindings as his torturer dragged the spearhead down his face. The more he thrashed, the deeper he pushed the spear into his skin, the louder-- _

He screamed, shooting upright. He ripped the bandana off of his head and pressed the heel of his palm into his right eye socket. He didn’t notice that he was hyperventilating, or that he was desperately whimpering slurs of  _ nonopleasenoithurtsplease _ under his breath. He didn’t notice the witcher wake from his meditation and place a hand on his back. 

“Iorveth,” Geralt said. He gently grabbed the elf’s wrists and tried to pry them from his face. The elf thrashed, desperately trying to move away, panic seeping from his body.

“Iorveth, it’s just me--” Geralt tried, but it wasn’t enough to stop the elf from throwing his bedroll from himself and attempting to run into the forest. Geralt swiftly stopped him, grabbing his arm and pulling him to the ground. He signed axii, and told Iorveth to be calm. It half worked, as the elf still hyperventilated and held his ruined face.

“You’re safe here,” Geralt assured, “talk to me.” Iorveth tried to steady his breaths, looking around. Geralt noticed his shoulders relax a little as he realized his surroundings, but his heart still thundered in his chest. His green eyes met Geralt’s yellow ones, and he paused. He searched the witcher’s eyes in the dim firelight. He didn’t know what he was looking for, he just wanted anything to soothe the panic raking over his body. 

“Are you okay? Does your face hurt?” Geralt asked gently, sitting in front of Iorveth and touching his knee. The rumble of Geralt’s voice in his ears, the concern on his features, those _bloede_ _vatt’ghern_ eyes that could see everything. He wanted to be brave, tell him that he was fine, that everything was okay but in truth, nothing was okay. His scar throbbed painfully, he was panicking, and he felt like weeping. And the witcher could probably tell, so he’d look like a fool if he said he was fine. 

Instead of speaking, Iorveth just shook his head, refusing to take his hand from his burning face. 

“How can I help you, Iorveth? Talk to me,” Geralt pleaded, placing a hand on the elf’s shoulder. 

Iorveth tried to speak, but a lump grew painfully in his throat. Something stung behind his good eye, something he hadn’t felt in a century. Iorveth bit his lip to try and stop it from quivering, and his lungs drew short, stuttering breaths. The scraps of control that Iorveth clung to slipped from him. He sobbed, slumping over, digging his fingernails into his scalp. The hand on his shoulder moved to his face, and a calloused thumb gently wiped the moisture from his cheek. Iorveth was stunned that he was crying. Frustration swelled in him. Here he was, crying after having a bad dream like a child. He was a commander. He wasn’t  _ supposed _ to cry. If his warriors saw him like this, they’d humiliate him and everything he fought for would be lost. And a witcher, the ploughing white wolf of them all, was babying him in his arms. He shoved the hand on his face away, looking at the ground in front of him. 

“Iorveth, what’s going on? I want to help you. Tell me, please,” Geralt begged, and it was the first time that the elf could remember the witcher saying “please” to him. Iorveth laughed through his sobs despite himself. He took a breath to try and steady his voice, but his lungs betrayed him. 

“The only other p-person in the world to s-see me cry in centuries is d-dead now,” he hiccuped, “and you w-will be too if you t-tell a soul about it.” Iorveth knew how stupid his threat sounded when he sniveled like a child, but he was sure the witcher understood. 

“You had a bad dream and you started panicking,” Geralt said.  _ Of course  _ witchers can sense panic attacks, and  _ of course _ Iorveth had to have his first one in decades in front of one. Iorveth scoffed and smiled sadly.

“Does your scar hurt? I have a mixture that might be able to soothe it,” Geralt offered. Iorveth didn’t move besides the hiccups shaking his body. He gnawed angrily on the inside of his cheek. The witcher sighed and reached for his pack, deftly pulling out several herbs and a rag. The elf could be so stubborn, so damn  _ proud _ even when he obviously and desperately needs help. He sighed, placing the herbs in a canister of water and setting it over the fire, signing igni to quickly heat the mixture. The water began to steam almost immediately, and Geralt carefully pulled it from the flames. He wrapped the wet herbs in a rag, and moved back towards Iorveth. 

“Here, “ he said, “hold this to the scar. A salve would work better, but it takes too long to brew.” Iorveth snatched the sachet away, a little more aggressively than he intended, and held it to his face. The warm water soothed his skin, and the herbs numbed his burning scar tissue. He sighed, slumping over and resting his elbows on his knees, trying to steady his breaths. Truthfully, he was thankful for the witcher. If he had to pick anyone in the world to have a panic attack in front of, it would be Geralt--though he’d never admit that. He laughed and shook his head, too embarrassed to speak.

“It happens to me too, sometimes,” Geralt explained after a long silence. The elf lifted his gaze to the witcher, his face lit by the fire, “I have dreams that give me panic attacks too. Most times I’m fighting one monster or another, and I’m too slow to save the people that I love from it. I don’t remember how I got most of my scars, but when I wake up, they hurt. I think the monsters that I fight in my dreams are the ones that gave me the scars that ache when I wake up.” Iorveth didn’t know what to say, so he kept staring at the witcher instead. The panic that swirled through his body moments ago was replaced with...something. Iorveth didn’t know what, but he was glad it wasn’t panic. It made him want to reach out and tuck the stray strand of white hair behind the witcher’s ear. Instead, he turned towards the fire and took a deep breath. 

As he watched the elf, Geralt wondered how long it’d been since the Scoia'tael leader had cried. Probably near a century. The witcher then wondered the last time  _ he’d  _ cried. If he had to guess, it would have been long before he lost his memory. He wanted to say something reassuring, something poetic and beautiful to the elf in front of him, but as he searched that green eye, nothing came to mind. He almost wished Dandelion was here to say it for him. 

The witcher smiled as something warm filled his chest. He hadn’t felt it in a long time, but he couldn’t figure out where he’d felt it before. 

“What are you smiling at?” Iorveth spat, fake venom in his voice. Geralt hadn’t realized he was smiling, but the answer to the question was right in front of him. 

“You,” Geralt said. Iorveth rolled his eye and took the sachet of herbs from his face. 

“Thank you,  _ Gwynbleidd _ ,” Iorveth said, still savoring the warmth of the sachet with his hands. Geralt hummed, nodding his head.

“You should try and get some more sleep, we have a long day tomorrow,” Geralt offered.  “I won’t be able to,” Iorveth accepted, stretching his arms over his head. He wrapped his blanket around his shoulders and scooted closer to the fire. Geralt stole one last look at the elf before he closed his eyes and began to meditate. 

* * *

Geralt had been meditating for nearly an hour before he felt something bump into him. He opened his eyes and looked to his right. Iorveth was asleep, his head resting on the witcher’s shoulder. Geralt was sure that the angle his neck was at would pain him in the morning, but he was glad that the elf was sleeping. Geralt smiled, that warm thing pouring into his chest again when he saw the elf still clutching the sachet of herbs. 


	4. Screams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iorveth cries a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: graphic depictions of violence
> 
> WHOOO BOI is this a chapter. I don't really... know what to say other than the bois feel a lot of things and don't know what to do about it

“Tomorrow I’m going to kill him,” Iorveth said, sharpening his scimitar, “We’re close enough to him and far enough away from any town, though I’m going to make him scream so loud, the kings in Nilfgaard can hear it.” Geralt hummed, confliction twinging in his chest. It must have been showing in his features because Iorveth paused his work on his sword and locked eyes with Geralt. 

“Not only did he give me this scar, he slaughtered my parents in front of me and burned down my forest, killing dozens of my people,” Iorveth explained, “You would have to kill me to get me to spare his life, so don’t try to stop me,  _ vatt’ghern _ . We all know how you feel about ‘lesser evils,’ but he still tortures our race and burns down our forests to this day.” Geralt wasn’t sure what the lesser evil would be in this situation, but he was familiar with the vengeance burning deep in Iorveth’s chest. He sighed, nodding his understanding. 

The witcher began to brew several potions as a silence settled on them. Iorveth finished sharpening his swords and moved to crafting arrows. Geralt was impressed with how skillfully the elf’s nimble fingers crafted the weapons, but wasn’t surprised. The  _ scoia’tael _ were some of the greatest archers on the continent. 

“Remember when I told you that the only other person to see me cry in centuries is dead now?” Iorveth said after a long silence. Geralt hummed. 

“I meant my mother. She was pregnant at the time she was killed. That  _ bloede _ murderer cut the child right out of her and smashed it into a tree before he cut her head off,” Iorveth said, his hands resting in his lap, “My father had a quick death. They slit his throat.” Geralt cringed, sorrow for the elf spreading in his throat.

“I’m sorry,” the witcher said. He knew it wasn’t enough, but there were no words that would ever be enough to ease the pain of what the elf had been through. Iorveth didn’t respond, only sat and stared into the fire. Geralt could sense the rage and pain burning through the elf. 

* * *

Iorveth signalled him to stop. Geralt did, and his heart quickened a little as Iorveth pulled the bow from his back. He knocked an arrow and aimed it at his target. The arrow whistled upon its release and speared the man’s hand into a tree. Iorveth knocked another arrow and released it, spearing his elbow to the tree as well. 

Geralt thought about stopping the elf. He knew vengeance would do nothing to ease the pain Iorveth felt, but he also knew that the pain would continue to fester inside of him if he didn’t get it. Geralt clenched his fists, turning his head away slightly as the elf stormed towards his target. 

Iorveth grabbed the man by the throat, smashing his head into the tree. 

“Do you know who I am?” the elf asked, his voice low and dripping with rage. The man stuttered in fear. He didn’t remember. Iorveth ripped the bandana from his head, revealing his scar. The man’s eyes widened. 

“P-please! You don’t understand!” the man pleaded, “I deserted the army years ago. I’m going to Wyzima to see my family, please--” Iorveth headbutted the man in the nose. His screams became gurgled as blood filled his nostrils. Iorveth's body shook with rage. Geralt clenched his jaw.

“I am going to make you feel the pain you inflicted on me. On my mother. On my people. I’m going to peel the skin from your body and burn you alive in this forest, do you understand me?” Geralt took a step forward.

“Please, my wife is pregnant--” the man begged. Geralt took another step forward. Iorveth pulled the man from the tree, the arrows in his arm tearing through muscle and ligaments. He screamed as Iorveth threw him to the ground and stomped on his jaw. 

“So was my mother when you ripped her child out of her!” the elf screamed. He pulled his scimitar from his side and stabbed it through his shoulder, pinning him to the ground. Geralt took a step forward. The elf pulled the other sword from his side and pointed it at the witcher. 

“Take another step towards me and you’ll end up like him,  _ vatt’ghern _ ,” he hissed. Geralt swore, shaking his head. He stepped back. 

Iorveth dragged the blunt end of his sword along the man’s face before he ripped the one from his shoulder, sheathed it, and dragged the man into a seated position. He held the man’s head still with one hand and teased the end of his blade into the man’s eye. With a sudden motion, he jerked the blade into his eye and twisted. The man’s screams made Geralt nauseous and caused gooseflesh to sprout on his skin. 

Iorveth dragged his blade down the man’s face, slicing cleanly through the layers of his skin. 

“It doesn’t feel good, does it?” Iorveth teased, standing and stepping away from the man. With a wail, the man tried to kick Iorveth, but the elf deftly moved and stomped on his knee instead. He took his blade and swung on his leg, chopping into his shin. The man screamed again, a sickening crack of bone echoing through the forest. 

Iorveth sheathed his sword and dragged the man by his collar to his feet. He laid punch after forceful punch to the man’s face until his head hung, bloody and limp. Iorveth dropped the man to the ground. 

The elf turned to the fire burning nearby. His entire body shook as the screams of his people burning echoed in his head. 

Iorveth pulled a flask of alcohol from his belt and poured it over the man. He grabbed him by the hair and in one forceful movement, threw him into the fire. 

Geralt watched as Iorveth stood over the burning man, thrashing and screeching as he was burned alive. Iorveth’s face twitched, and tears silently fell from his eye. As the man’s screams quieted, Iorveth turned and walked deeper into the forest. Geralt followed him. 

The elf came to a river and dropped to his knees. He stared for a long time at his reflection in the water, not moving. Just as Geralt was about to speak, Iorveth took a deep, stuttering breath, threw his head back, and screamed.

Geralt had heard many screams in his life. The drunken screams of angry men in inns, the wailing of women beat by their husbands, the screams of orphaned children, the shrieks of people tortured and disfigured, the deafening screeches of basilisks. Few came close to the way that Iorveth’s screams made him  _ hurt _ . Iorveth was one of the most prideful, strong, stubborn, and downright dangerous souls he’s ever met. But to see him kneeling on a riverbed, screaming in a pain worse than any mutation or trial Geralt had ever been through, vulnerable and sobbing, was a sight that Geralt never wanted to see again. 

* * *

Iorveth screamed for the scar throbbing on his face. He screamed for his parents, his unborn sibling. He screamed for his forests burned and temples destroyed. He screamed for his people killed in vicious acts of genocide. He screamed for his dismantled history and culture. He screamed for the centuries of pain his people suffered. He screamed hate. He screamed agony. He screamed rage. He screamed hope for the future of his people. 

* * *

Iorveth screamed until he couldn’t. He screamed until all that came out were hoarse whispers that turned into soft sobs. The sun was beginning to set. Geralt slowly approached the weeping elf and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. The elf turned to him, his face red and wet with tears. 

Geralt looked hard at the elf. His green eye was bloodshot and his lips were dry. His short, black hair was messy and tangled, and his shoulders slumped. A painful lump grew in the witcher’s throat. 

Iorveth turned back to the river, taking off his bloodstained gloves and setting them to his side. He cupped his hands and splashed the cool water on his face, scrubbing his eye and around his nose. He combed his wet fingers through his hair, slicking it back out of his face. He took a deep, steady breath before he picked up his gloves and stood. He walked back toward his target’s camp. He refused to look at the charred corpse in the fire, and instead picked up his red bandana from the forest floor. 

He pondered it in his hands for a while, thumbing over the folds and stitches. He pulled the feather from it and twisted it between his thumb and forefinger. He turned towards the witcher, exhaustion on his features. He was empty. 

Geralt stepped toward the elf who clutched the bandana close to his chest. The witcher didn’t know what he felt. Iorveth, the commander of the _Scoia’tael_ , the proud _Aen Seidhe_ who has threatened to kill him more than anyone in his life, stood broken and hollow in front of him. No combination of words in any language could describe the feeling that swirled through his body. It made him sweat and shiver at the same time. It made his muscles ache. It made him want to peel himself out of his skin. 

Iorveth’s throat ached and the fuzziness of sleep began to settle behind his eyes. He looked at the witcher, slightly taller and broader than him, his white hair spilling over his shoulders, the stubble on his chin, the scars crossing his yellow eyes.

Geralt hugged Iorveth. He wrapped his arms around the elf and held his head close. He cupped the back of his head and pressed his cheek to his temple. Iorveth, eventually, released his grip on the bandana and weakly wrapped his arms around Geralt’s waist. The slow pulse and his steady breathing soothed Iorveth’s aching body, and for the first time in a century, he let love into his heart.


End file.
